


Why Tony Stark Won't Go to Wayne Manor Anymore

by CharityLambkin



Category: Avengers, Batman - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Gotham City - Freeform, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whipping, the Batmobile - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharityLambkin/pseuds/CharityLambkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark doesn't go over to Bruce Wayne's house anymore.</p><p>He has a really good reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Tony Stark Won't Go to Wayne Manor Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> So when I’m bored I like to talk with people on ShamChat as Tony Stark. There can be some…creative people on ShamChat and I once ran into someone with the handle Your Subconscious Gay Thoughts. I said I’d fuck Bruce Banner in a heartbeat. They insisted I had the wrong Bruce, but I said there was a reason I didn’t go to Wayne Manor anymore. They asked me to tell the story. Poor thing had no idea they had a fanfic writer on the other end…or what they were getting into. This is the story.

First thing you have to know to understand the scope of the situation is that I get kind of turned on by cars, you know?  You know.

The second thing you have to know is that Bruce Wayne is motherfucking-bat-shit crazy. 

Steve and I have had our disagreements on our team, but Batman’s team?  No one will even spar with the guy, they’re so scared of him.  And he’s not even an alien, or an Amazonian warrior, or son of Poseidon or anything like that.

Anyway, I was in Gotham on a business trip and I ran into Bruce at a gala.  I don’t even remember what the function was for, but I knew Bruce would be there so I went.  In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have asked him if his “little Dick tagged along” or mentioned that engineer Stark Industries R&D hired away from Wayne Enterprises—or called him “Batsy” to his face. 

So it really wasn’t a surprise that he crushed his mouth to mine just to shut me the fuck up.  But I _was_ surprised by how quickly those thin, tight lips broke beneath mine, and how my goatee scraped along the stubble just underneath his square cheekbone, and how his mouth tasted like copper even though I thought he had been drinking bourbon.  I ran out of breath first, but he didn’t fight it when I nipped his bottom lip with sharp teeth and dragged my tongue over the tang of blood. 

“Send your driver home,” he said.  “I’ll have the Lamborghini brought around.”

“I took a cab,” I smirked because we both knew what a slum Gotham was.  But his smile was fond because the city may be a dirty, corrupt ghetto—but it was _his_ dirty, corrupt ghetto.

The valet had the car waiting outside.  Bruce once asked me how I knew he was Batman.  I asked him who else would drive a matte black _Murciélago_.  I swear, he’s either _trying_ to give his identity away or else he’s failing at the whole rich-boy-ironic-hipster thing.  The man is fluent in Spanish.  There’s no excuse for that behavior.

But I digress.

At least he knew how to drive it, and he had a pretty blatant disrespect for whatever passed as “traffic laws” in that city. 

Bruce wove between cars and blazed through red lights.  Twice, he swerved into the incoming lane to avoid a crash just to swerve right back to avoid another car.  When we reached a long stretch of country road just outside of the city, the roadster accelerated so fast that I felt my stomach drop down to my testicles. 

It was fucking great, but something was wrong about the thrumming vibrations rising up from the seat, like it was straining for some frequency it just couldn’t reach.  I could feel it.  The car wanted to go faster.  I glanced at the speedometer to see the dial pushing 190. 

“Got a garage at your place?” I asked. 

A sharp turn pressed me against the passenger door.  But Bruce looked totally serene as he steered the car at Grand Prix speeds through the dark country roads.  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I have a garage,” he said.

“Well, fire your mechanic,” I said.

He didn’t answer, so I settled back in my seat until a huge Gothic mansion rose into view.  The wrought iron gate swung open as we rolled down the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires.  I was lucky he was going slowly to try to avoid rocks spinning up into the wheel well.  Fast cars and dark cities always give me a hard on, and I didn’t want to stand up just yet. 

He drove right past the grand front entrance with its over-wrought arches and stone pillared doorways.  Seriously, his place looks like a cross between Gatsby’s mansion and Dracula’s castle.  Give me clean lines, granite and glass any day.  But he kept going around the side of the house, up a smaller drive to the back.

“You wanted to see the garage?” he asked.  “I take it you don’t mean where I keep the Porches.”

He kept looking straight ahead, so I didn’t stop the smile of glee that crossed my face.  And, yes, he was implying what I thought he was.  The car drove down what looked like an underground parking structure—but it was actually a rock tunnel reinforced with titanium security doors cleverly disguised as a metal shed at the surface level. 

Dim blue overhead track lighting switched on as he glided down the tunnel.  The passage ended in a sheer drop, but Bruce took a hard turn right before the edge and parked on a platform hidden from the view of the tunnel. 

I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, but I still remember how damp and _cold_ the air had been in the cave.  I hadn’t been underground in a long time, but this cave was much different than the one I was familiar with.  The air was much darker, lit by blue LED’s whose light didn’t travel very far in the blinding darkness instead of the smoky glow of kerosene lamps.  The vaulted ceilings made the cave feel far less claustrophobic and a lot more like the Mines of fucking Moria.  The damp, the cold and the unfamiliar air hit me all at once when I opened the car door, but I pushed all those warnings aside as soon as I saw the Batmobile.

She was not exactly what I expected, but so much more, if that makes sense.  I suppose it always does when you’re talking about something you’ve coveted for a long time—the sweet disillusionment of delayed gratification.  She was on a raised platform that led to a runway through a waterfall.  Very romantic. 

“Go ahead.  Pop the hood.”

I dared a quick glance over my shoulder as I shucked off my suit jacket.  He had his hands in his pockets and an indulgent expression on his face. It looked like permission to me, so I threw my jacket over the side mirror and slid my fingers into the smooth seam of the hood, probing for the catch with a light touch.  I ran my hand down one side, then the other, but felt nothing.  Batsy was probably smirking at my back, so I started to turn around, but a solid, heavy hand wrapped around my left shoulder while another hand twisted my right wrist against my back, and I was slammed so hard against the hood of the car that I didn’t have the breath to protest as he held me in place with his hips against my ass.

My breath fogged up the gleaming black paint, and there wasn’t enough light to see Bruce’s reflection in the hood.  I tried to turn around and see what he was doing, but he twisted my wrist deeper into my back and leaned the elbow of that arm right into my spine.  I had to hold my breath to keep from yowling. 

Then I was holding my breath for a different reason because I heard the metallic jingle of handcuffs a second before my wrists were being cuffed tightly behind me.  Then a heavy, crushing weight pressed against the length of my back, jamming the elbow into the sensitive flesh below my ribs. 

“Breathe!” a deep, rasping voice in my ear commanded.

I did.  I drew in gulping lungfuls of cold, wet air.  Slowly, I became aware of the weight being lifted off my back, of feeling suddenly very light.

I was still gasping for breath when my ankles were kicked apart and each ankle was buckled into a sturdy leather cuff.  One hand wrapped around each of my ankles and forced them further apart, so I had to slide down a little on the hood to accommodate the stretch.  I gasped a little—just under my breath—when I felt my ass cheeks part and I was glad that I still had my pants on. 

And then he was walking away, backwards where I couldn’t see him.  But I was curious enough to see what he would do if I stayed in that position.  He didn’t take long before he was walking back, steps echoing so much in the cavern that he sounded like he was coming from every direction at once, closer, closer.

Hands were on my ankles again. He parted my legs even more and secured each cuff to an end of an iron spreader bar.  By this time, my shoulders were starting to feel their position and I felt unbalanced across the front of the car.

I opened my mouth to say something witty—I was sure something witty would come out if I just opened it—but I was cut off by the sharp, resounding crack of a whip against the car right next to my cheek.  I could feel the air part as the leather cut through the air resistance and it stunned me into silence.  For a fraction of a second.

“What the fuck, Bruce!  You’re going to fuck up the car!” I squawked. 

He laughed darkly, but the sound rose from the ground, up through his belly and out through his chest like some deep, primal roar.  I had never heard Bruce laugh like that.  It suited him. 

“She can take a lot more punishment than that,” he said before cracking the whip on the other side of my face.

Echoing footsteps again.  I couldn’t tell if they were coming or going.  Bruce came around the side of the car into my line of sight and leaned against the driver’s side door.  He coiled the whip—a long, black leather bullwhip with a braided leather handle thick enough to get a good grip—and laid it on the hood where I could see.  He crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at me.

“I’m going to ask you only once, Stark.  Do you want this?"

One chance.  Right now.  I didn’t have to think about it.  “Yes,” I said with a grin.

I know Bruce is Batman.  I know Batman is a certified fucking ninja.  But, you know, a=b=c is a metric fuckton easier with numbers than with people.  So I was still very shocked at how fast Bruce Wayne flipped a switchblade out of his pocket and shredded my clothes.  I couldn’t do anything but lie as still as I could and let him work, or else I was sure I was going to get a shave in a very needless place.  In the end, he kicked away the long scraps of my bespoke Saville Row suit and I was left shaking and pressing against the car for a little warmth. 

He laughed again.  Just a chuckle this time, but it still had the same deep, bass quality.  Then he reached over my bare back to take the whip.

I expected a blow and I both steeled myself and tried to relax.  But it didn’t happen.  Instead, the long rough leather tail trailed from the crack of my ass all the way up my spine and I yelp a little in surprise.  It felt pretty damn good, and I was over sensitized with expectation. 

“Didn’t take you for a whip person, Batsy,” I panted as he traced the leather whisper-soft against as much exposed skin as he could.  He didn’t answer right away, so I continued.  “Thought you would be more into…I dunno…hanging upside down or something.”

“It belongs to an old girlfriend,” he said.

My thoughts turned to static as he skimmed the whip up the inside of my ankle, all the way up my leg and thigh, to nudge the handle against the back of my balls and run it up the underside of my cock.

“Oh, god!” I bit out.  I hadn’t noticed how hard I was until he touched me, and now it lit me up from within with a hot, straining need.  I could feel drops of liquid dripping from my cock where it was pressed against the black paint. 

“Hmm,” Bruce hummed, but it sounded pleased.  He continued to tease my with the whip, lighting my skin up with electric tingling sensation.

Without warning, the whip came down hard across my ass in a diagonal from my right hip to my left thigh.  I cried out, more in shock than anything because it took a full second or two for the pain to light up and suck the air out of my lungs so I couldn’t breathe. 

Bruce used the distraction of my agony to unlock my left hand.  He left it hanging loose as he reached up and tried to cuff my hand to the driver’s door frame.  It wouldn’t reach, so he pulled me bodily up onto the hood and secured it before walking around and doing the same to the other side.

I struggled a bit, just to feel how much give I had in every direction.  He let me do it.  He backed off and watched until I was done flopping around like a fish.  Then he picked up the whip again.

I gasped a little when he scraped the leather across the new welt on my ass, but I managed not to yelp when he grabbed a cheek in each hand and forced them wide apart.  He held me like that for a while, open to the cold air until it felt like the cave was seeping inside of me.  Then he let me go.

Something slick and thick and blunt wormed its way against my hole and I had about a half a second to relax before it was thrust past the tight ring of muscle.  I did cry out.  It sure sounded like I screamed in the empty echo.  But he didn’t stop.  He just kept pushing it further and further inside, and I knew it was the handle of the whip because I could feel every twist on every braid on the handle as it scraped against the inside of my intestine.  It hurt and it burned, and my stomach cramped against the intruder as my eyes watered uncontrollably.  I opened my mouth to scream again, to tell him to stop…but then he did.

And I was left, strapped to the hood of a car, feet off the ground, with a bullwhip sticking out of my ass like some obscene cat tail.  And I was harder than I ever remember being in my life, my dick throbbing so badly that the hood of the car was hot and pulsing between my thighs.  The whip felt so huge inside of me, and every time I tried to shift it would catch and move inside me.

Those silent hands were on my ass again and I moaned as he rubbed a finger, coated in something thick and cool, around my stretched hole.  He worked it against the muscle, pushing the whip to the side as he wiggled the thick digit in beside the handle.  I moaned, but I tried to relax because I figured it was much better to be lubed up for whatever he was planning.

By the time he was satisfied by how much lube he had worked in around the handle, I was panting and whining for him to hurry the fuck up.  That got me a crack on the ass with a bare hand since the whip was preoccupied, I suppose.   

Slowly, so very slowly, he drew the whip handle back out of my ass.  It moved a lot more smoothly than going in, and I could hear him fumbling a bit as he coated it with more lube.  But I wasn’t prepared for how he shoved it back into me and pulled it out again, almost too quickly to realize it was there.  It left me gasping.

And then he started to really fuck me with the whip.  He put one hand flat on my back and used the other to pump the thick leather like a piston.  I heaved in great, gasping breaths to try to relieve some of the pain, but it was too much.  I screamed for him to stop.

But he didn’t.  He pressed down tighter on my back and changed the angle of the whip so that he was thrusting right into my prostate.  I couldn’t breathe.  Or maybe  I could, but I couldn’t tell I was doing it.  But I wanted to scream again and I didn’t have any air.  Every time he thrust into me, my world exploded and reformed.

I came.  I came so hard, spurting thick, sticky come all over his million-dollar paint job.  I sobbed and big, round tears plopped down on the hood.  Bruce kept fucking me, unrelenting, as long as I kept crying and coming.

He didn’t stop.  I crashed down after the wave of orgasm, every inch inside and out sensitized and overstimulated, but if anything Bruce just went faster and harder, digging the leather right into my prostate with every plunge.

“Bruce!” I cried.  “Bruce!  Wayne!  Stop!”

He hit me, hard on the back of the head so that my forehead banged against the hood.  It was enough to make me bite my tongue.  Like, literally, I bit my tongue and bled enough to shut me up for a minute.

And he just kept fucking me, long and hard, until I felt my sphincter give up against the onslaught and go loose, just letting the leather handle slide in and out with as little resistance as possible.  I was moaning uncontrollably by then, so I figured it was ok if I screamed again when I came a second time.

And he kept going, shifting closer, moving his hand from my back to gripping my hips so he could go deeper.

I screamed, throat turning sore with the rawness of it.  I tried to get away, but I had no purchase with my feet held so far apart off the ground, and my fingers closed around nothing but empty air.  My belly and my hips and thighs were coated with lube and come so that I was slipping and sliding up and down the smooth, glassy hood with each of Bruce’s ruthless thrusts, getting no friction, no relief from the relentless fucking.

“Oh god, Bruce stop!  I can’t go again!” I pleaded.  “I can’t do this.  I can’t.  Oh god, it hurts!” I was whining.  “What the fuck is the safe word?”

Bruce laughed loudly.  “This is not a place of safety.”

Stark men were made of iron.  Stark men didn’t cry.

But that isn’t—strictly—true.  I’ve heard metal scream and hiss and whine after it’s plunged into cold water after the forge.  And that’s how I felt.  Burned up, burned alive from the inside out until I was nothing but sharp bursts of pain punctuated by moments of waiting for the pain.  I was sure I couldn’t come again, just as I was equally sure Bruce wouldn’t stop until I did.

A shrill, metallic ring cut through my wails of agony.  Bruce froze at the sound. When it rang again, he immediately pulled the whip out of my ass and…left.  It took my hazy brain a few long moments to realize that he had stepped off to answer a telephone.

I shifted my weight a little to test my range of motion, but that was a horrible idea because my ass flared up in raw, abrasive pain from the inside of my thighs to inside…well…other places.  I tried to breathe as I waited.  It seemed like a very long time, and I closed my eyes.

“I need the car,” a gruff, familiar voice woke me from my light doze.

Before I had even opened my eyes all the way, my wrists were released and I slid down the car to tumble to the side in a heap of limbs and sore muscles.  He left me there, legs still held wide by the spreader bar, as he pulled on his cowl and fastened his cape. 

“Alfred will call you a cab,” he said with barely a glance in my direction.

Gunning the engine, Batman roared out into the night with the hood of the Batmobile splattered with my come.

Despite the fact I now get to say that to perfect strangers, it wasn’t an experience I would ever repeat.

It wasn’t long before Bruce’s British butler—I think I called him Jarvis on accident—came looking for me.  He tutted and tsked as he unlocked my legs and pulled a pair of slacks over my bare hips and helped my shaking fingers button a crisp white dress shirt.  He didn’t seem too concerned with the state I was in, or else he was so well-practiced that it was just another job for him.  Either way, it was probably easier that way for both of us.

The cab was a stretch limo, with the darkened privacy glass raised so I never saw the driver.   That was easier, too.  He didn’t ask for directions, and the limo started off towards my hotel.

I rapped on the glass with my knuckles.  “Hey, buddy, can you drop me at the airport instead?”

The glass didn’t lower but the limousine changed direction so I was satisfied.

I leaned back against the warm leather of the seat.  I figured I would go to the airport, kick back in the executive lounge, maybe even shower.  And as soon as the jet was ready, I was going straight back to New York.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, I'm not usually this crazy on Shamchat.


End file.
